


Late Night

by TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy



Series: Catch Your Breath [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mild Smut, many emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-10 04:53:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3277475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy/pseuds/TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John can't catch a break. Sherlock is not entirely unhappy about that.</p><p>Rated E for what happens in the last chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Late Night

Breath. I need to catch my breath first.

John pressed his back to the wet wall and forced himself to take some deep, slow breaths. The air was just cold enough to be refreshing, just warm enough to not be freezing. But after having run down several streets, trying to keep up with his flatmate, John felt so hot from exertion, he was tempted to get rid of his jacket to cool down. He refrained from removing it, because he knew he'd have to carry it in his hands, and he needed those for other things.

Some branches of ivy concealed his form, as he cautiously looked around the corner of his hiding space. He was standing in front of a small park, surrounded by high brick walls and iron fences. With the abundance of plants creeping over the wall, it looked almost abandoned, but the inside was very well kept. John knew that because he had been there during the day.

Now it was night. It was raining lightly. All around him there was water dripping from the plants, slowly soaking through his clothes. He cursed quietly.

It was 3am. He was tired and had been running around the neighbourhood like a madman. Which made him even more tired. All because Sherlock had refused to call in additional help. Once again.

They had been on the track of a killer for the last days. Or so they assumed. There was never a complete corpse to be found - only body parts. Distributed throughout London in small parks and gardens. A hand here, an ear here. The parts didn't even all belong to the same person. And none were vital body parts, which could mean that the victims might still be alive.

John shuddered. Maybe they'd better be off dead, he thought. But he quickly scolded himself for the thought.

A few hours ago Sherlock had suddenly jumped up from his chair in 221b, muttered something about a pattern, and had left the flat before John had the chance to ask about… well, anything, really.

Some minutes later, he had received a text message with three addresses. Houses with big gardens, all in the same neighbourhood. Instructions to surveil those gardens during the night. Sherlock was looking after seven other places. Apparently his flatmate thought that the killer would appear at one of those.

John had hesitated. This was absurd. How could they keep an eye on everything? He had even texted Sherlock, asking him to call in police assistance. No reply. Before going out, John sent over the list of addresses to Lestrade. He was not going to let Sherlock run around alone, but he was also not stupid enough to think that they could cover everything themselves. Worst case, the police officers would hang out in the rain for a while. No harm done.

Now it was two hours later. Lestrade had mobilised some officers to cover the addresses Sherlock had come up with. But nothing was happening.

Until John had received a text from Sherlock with an address and an order.

**Be there in under five minutes. The killer will be there. I'll get him with or without you. SH**

While John cautiously looked around, his thoughts kept coming back to the message. He didn't try to find out how Sherlock could be so sure of the place. 'I'll get him with or without you.'? Why did that sound like a challenge? Did Sherlock want to make him run faster? Because John was sure he would've tried to be at his friends side as quickly as possible, anyway. A warning? An insult?

John shook his head. No time now. Focus on the surroundings.

And no second too late. Hearing a strangled cry from behind the wall, he jumped out of his hiding spot to assist Sherlock in whatever he had caught himself up this time. But at first it didn't even look like he'd need any help.

The detective had apparently tackled the killer, knocking him over and now tried to keep him on the ground. But the other person was even taller than Sherlock and after a few moments, it was obvious that the other one started to gain the high ground.

John didn't hesitate, but threw himself at the killer as well. A few well placed movements later, he had both of the suspects arms behind his back, holding them in place with his hands. Sherlock slumped back and ended up sitting on the floor.

"Thank… you…," he coughed. It sounded like the other person had hit him in the throat during the fight.

John had both his hands full keeping the suspect from wriggling around. Even though he kept pressure on the twisted arms, the other man would not give up completely.

"Sherlock. Call Lestrade."

"Didn't... you…?"

"Yeah, I did. But I'd rather have this guy in custody sooner that later."

"Fuck you!" the killer cursed and spit on the ground, barely missing Sherlocks coat.

"Easy... easy," John said in a perfectly reasonable tone, but the pained grunts coming from the person in front of him suggested that the grip on his arms had just become even tighter. Even though John was much smaller than the other man, with just one skilled movement, he brought the suspect to his knees, suddenly giving off the feeling of being much bigger than his statue would suggest.

"Lestrade is on… cough… his way," Sherlock didn't even flinch at the killers attempt to spit at him and got back on his feet. "I texted him... after you."

John shrugged. He had expected something along these lines. But even after being used to Sherlock doing his own thing, it would sometimes be nice to get informed of the essential parts. Just sometimes. Once, even. That would be a start.

He started to say something, but was interrupted by a car screeching to a full stop in front of the park gate. Seconds later, Lestrade and Donovan ran towards the pair of the detective and his blogger.

"I got your message, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded.

"Is this...?"

"Yes, I believe… so…," Sherlock coughed some more.

"Are you alright?" Lestrade gave Sherlock a worried look, which the detective chose to ignore.

"Compared to his victims… I am completely… fine."

"Get this guy in for questioning," Lestrade barked at two additional officers, who had shown up at the scene. "For gods sake, hurry up."

John relinquished control of the suspect to the police officers, but not without twisting his arms one last time. The other man shot him a look that could kill and had his arms up as soon as John had let go, throwing a punch into the doctors direction. John was too surprised by the movement to dodge or counter. And so the fist hit him right in the face, barely missing his nose. The impact wasn't hard enough to make him fall over, but he swayed for a moment until finding his equilibrium again.

The next thing that happened was another impact, but this time someone flew to the ground. And this time a nose was definitely hit. Sherlock had reacted more quickly than anyone else on the scene, placing a well aimed punch in the suspects face. The force didn't only thrown him to the ground, but the two police officers, who were supposed to restrain the bad man, as well.

John quickly threw his arms around the detective and drew him back. But he was surprised to find that Sherlock didn't make any more attempt to go after the man who'd just punched his friend, but rather made a show of shaking his hands, as if he'd just touched something really gross and wanted to get rid of the remnants clinging to his gloves.

"I am going to join you at the questioning of this… individual," he said calmly, but Lestrade shook his head.

"I'm getting enough heat for this already. Mobilising half of our unit in the middle of the night based on a text message from someone I shouldn't be involved with, anyway," he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I believe you made a lasting impression on the lad already. This will be easy."

With a head motion, he instructed the officers to carry the suspect away, who was currently crying while holding his bloodied nose, which was not quite straight anymore.

"Pity. But I believe his victims are still alive, so you would do well to make it quick," Sherlock looked at the suspect, disappearing into the police car. "You sure I can't assist you?"

"Very."

"Let it go," John rubbed his left cheek where the impact had hit him. "I'm okay. He didn't hit anything important."

"He hit your face," Sherlock stated.

"Yeah, but missed the nose."

"He hit you."

"Your point being…?"

"You said he hit nothing important. But he hit you. You're important."

John was temporarily stumped and blinked at the detective, whose face didn't betray any emotion behind his words. Before the red, which he felt creeping up to his face, was visible, he placed a hand on his cheek and looked away. He hoped Sherlock wouldn't notice, but he knew that was a fools hope, at best. At least Lestrade was currently busying himself with shouting orders to Donovan and the others and didn't realise what was happening behind him.

"We'd better get home, then. It's too dark to have a look at my face here."

Sherlock nodded. After his gaze lingered on Johns cheek for a few more seconds, he turned around to leave the park with his usual quick step, coat blazing. John couldn't do anything but follow him.


	2. A Walk in the Park

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The case gets more concrete. A dog finds a plaything.

A little push.

“John?”

“Hrmm….”

A slight shake.

“John. Wake up.”

“I don’t think so…”

“I have to treat your cheek.”

“I’ll survive it.”

Sherlock made an untypically annoyed grunting noise. John didn’t even seem to notice, which was just as well, the detective thought. He tried shaking Johns shoulders one more time, but that made the other person slump even deeper into the couch.

Right after they had returned home, John had been instructed to wait there, while Sherlock busied himself by grabbing the medical supplies from the bathroom. Despite Johns repeated confirmation “I’m fine. Thank you. It’s nothing.” it was obvious that the punch would leave a bruise and had been slightly bleeding. If nothing, Sherlock wanted to disinfect the wound, at least.

But as he returned, John had already been drifting off to sleep. Giving up on trying to wake him, Sherlock gently put his hands around his bloggers head and turned it so he could inspect the wound closer.

Except a low grumble when the disinfecting alcohol was applied, John made no attempt to wake up during the procedure, unknowingly giving Sherlock both time and reason to look at and touch his face for as long as he liked.

“I’m sorry…,” Sherlock mumbled while tracing the outline of the bruise with his finger. “Well, for this at least.”

After it was clear that John was not going to wake up again, Sherlock placed the medical supplies on his desk and retreated to his chair. He turned it towards the couch and allowed himself a few minutes of rest. But he wasn’t sleeping, but rather watching John.

He looked so… defenseless right now. Sherlock knew that his doctor was everything but defenseless. Which made it so much sweeter to see how he let his guard down around him... The detective loudly cleared his throat, not to say something, but to make some thoughts in his head disperse. This was neither the time nor place for this. This… Well, no use thinking about it now.

John was smaller than him, but rather heavy when you wanted to carry him around. Luckily the doctor was so tuckered out, he didn’t even realise he was picked up like a princess and carried to his room. Sherlock placed him carefully on the bed, contemplating for a few minutes to remove Johns clothes, so he’d sleep better. But in the end he refrained. John would definitely feel uncomfortable about that in the morning. Having been carried to the bed would be enough confusion.

Sherlocks intent was not to get closer to John in that way, by any means. Not now, at least. It was still too early for that. He just had to keep John… busy. He smirked. Everything was going according to plan so far.

The room was warm enough for John to sleep without a blanket, but Sherlock draped one around him anyway. Making sure that the other man was totally floating in dreamland, Sherlock put his face next to Johns one last time that night.

“Sweet dreams, John,” he whispered and placed a tentative kiss on his doctors cheek, right next to the bruise.

\---

John groaned. He had rolled over during the night and slept on the injured part of his face for quite a while, it seemed. His head hurt. At least there wasn’t any blood on the pillow. He gingerly touched his cheek, examining the bruise, putting as much pressure as he could bare on the bones. It seemed like there was nothing wrong. But he didn’t even want to see his own face in the mirror right now. Every movement of the jar made the skin stretch and hurt. It must look awful, he thought.

Well, he had to shower and shave. No way around that.

Only when he got up from the bed, he realised where he was. In his bedroom, door closed. Still in his clothes from last night. Sherlock must’ve carried him up the stairs. No other explanation. John had to grin at the picture of the slender man trying to heave him up to his room. But he immediately scolded himself because the movement made his face hurt even more. Luckily Sherlock wasn’t the type to make jokes, so he hoped to live through the day without a lot of grinning and hurting.

He took a last look around. Nothing was amiss. He still had his clothes on. Nothing had happened. Why would he think about if anything had happened?

Ugh… his head was killing him. Time for an aspirin and a hot shower. His clothes from last night had dried, but suddenly he felt really dirty.

\---

John hadn’t even been in the shower for more than a few minutes, when there was an urgent knock on the door. He had been in thought and was so surprised by the noise, he almost slipped.

“John? Are you done?”

“Jesus, Sherlock, I almost fell over!”

“But are you done?”

“You can hear the water. What do you think?”

“I think you should move faster.”

“Why?”

“Lestrade texted me. They found more body parts. A whole arm this time.”

John grumbled. He didn’t even have breakfast yet. The aspirin wasn’t working yet. He was tired from last night. His face hurt while talking. He… sighed.

“Alright, give me five minutes.”

“Okay,” Sherlock said. He added “Hurry up.” after a little break.

John threw the bottle of shampoo at the door after the last comment. Then, finally, he heard Sherlock walk away. The doctor stared at the door for a while, then cursed himself under his breath because he had to leave the tub to fetch the shampoo. A noise from outside the door had him pause. Was that a laugh? It sounded distant. Maybe Mrs. Hudson had company.

Actually forcing himself to hurry, he left the bath ten minutes later. Sherlock was already pacing through the sitting room and gave a John an annoyed look as he came down the stairs, as if to say ‘That was more than five minutes!’. Which made the other man only shrug and move slower on purpose.

“I think I might need a cup of tea.”

“You don’t need any bloody tea now. You need to put on your shoes.”

“No need to be so hostile.”

“John. The police are idiots. They found out nothing while questioning the guy. And now there’s a whole arm in bloody St.James Park. People may be dying!”

“That doesn’t exactly sound like your usual reasoning.”

“I only tried to explain it with arguments you would understand, John. With a little more… emotion? Apparently I shouldn’t have bothered,” Sherlock sighed. “The main suspect has no intent to kill his victims, obviously. And the idiot from last night is just an accomplice. But why? I don’t know, but I fully intend to find out. The case is finally getting exciting! Now put on your shoes!”

John shook his head, but had to smile seeing Sherlock finally being all giddy about the case. It was almost like he was a little child. Only he was happy about detached body parts. Well, you take what you can get?

“And last night wasn’t exciting enough?” John asked while turning his injured cheek to Sherlock.

The other man stopped walking around in circles to look at John, his face falling a little, to the doctors surprise.

“I’m… I’m really sorry that happened.”

“Don’t be…,” John said in an apologetic tone. He was expecting a snarky comeback, not this. “I’ve had worse. Come on, let’s go.”

Sherlock jumped at Johns words, maybe a bit too quickly, grinning so wide it should be impossible. A second later, he was already on the stairs. John had always been determined to find out how Sherlock could even move so quickly. One day he’d find out.

\---

There wasn't much left of the victims arm. Unfortunately, the one who had found it had been quite a large dog. He had taken his time to play with this strange, but very interesting new plaything. So when Sherlock and John arrived at the scene, they found a large area between several trees surround by police tape - all the space in which parts of the arm had been found.

Ignoring the loud protest of a police officer, Sherlock made his way to a group of people within the crime scene, who were apparently grouped around something interesting. John tried to calm down the angry officer, which had no effect until the other man got the order to let them pass. Not like it would've made any difference to Sherlock, who was already pushing to get to the center of the group.

"Freak's here," Donovan remarked, as Sherlock gently pushed her to the side.

Sherlock briefly turned around and rolled his eyes at her. This made Donovan shut up more effectively than any other comeback Sherlock had ever given. She exchanged a questioning look with her co-worker, who had also seen Sherlocks incredibly human gesture, but they could both only shrug.

"A dog found the arm closer to the lake, played with it, and in the end dragged the remains over here to show to his master," Sherlock mumbled, more to himself.

Lestrade picked up on it, anyway. "Yeah, that's what we think. You can have five minutes to examine the arm and the crime scene, then I have to ask you to leave."

"Why only five minutes?" John asked, as he had just arrived to join the circle. "It's not like there isn't enough space for all of us in the park."

"Because we've only just gotten the okay to let Sherlock back in on the investigations regularly, without me having to get a confirmation from the top every time. How often do I have to tell you?" Lestrade sighed, glancing at Johns cheek, but refrained from making a comment when John shook his head. "And because I've called 12 officers out of bed last night and most of them are here right now - not exactly happy."

"Occupational hazard," John said in a tone that suggested he couldn't care less, cutting off Sherlock, who had just opened his mouth to retaliate against Lestrade. "We caught one of the suspects, did we not?"

He could see Sherlock grin, but quickly turn his attention towards the mangled arm, hiding his face from everyone. But seemingly seconds later, no emotion but controlled, focussed curiosity was present in his face. Wide eyes took in all details of the scene in front of him. With careful steps, he circled around the remains, avoiding bits of flesh spread out in the gras.

"John, give me a pen," he said calmly and held out his hand without looking up.

John patted down his pockets.

"Sorry, don't have one with me," he shrugged.

"Donovan. Pen."

"Why would I?"

"Because my blogger doesn't carry one, even though part of his job is recording the cases."

John made a pouting noise, which could as well have been from a child being denied his dessert. Donovan almost snorted.

"Sherlock!", John said in a tone that couldn't decide between anger and amusement at Donovans laughter.

"As I recall you are taking a break from your work at the clinic - and rightfully so. It is dreadfully boring. So this is your job," the detective stated with just a hint of emotion in his voice.

Donovan was still giggling as she handed Sherlock a pen. John froze. Yes, he was taking a break from work. He just wasn't able to face Mary right now. It had been three weeks since he left home and he had only seen her - without the child, even - on two separate occasions so far. Once when he had grabbed some more things for his temporary new home at Baker Street. And once when they had seen a lawyer. Temporary home. Yeah, that's what he had told himself. Told Mary. He wasn't so sure about that adjective anymore. Just the thought of leaving the flat 221b again filled him with dread. He'd take violin noises at 3am over waking up in an empty home any day.

And Sherlock? He had just nodded when John had told him, in a weak moment, that he didn't want to go to his work for a while. The detective had apparently been handsomely rewarded for his work while he had been... dead. He had immediately offered to cover for John for a while. The doctor was extremely uncomfortable with this arrangement. He wasn't the type to live off others. He had argued, but something in Sherlocks eyes had told him that it was okay to let go, at least for a short amount of time, to concentrate on himself instead of others. The concept had been as alien to John as was the notion that Sherlock had suggested it. But he had given in. 

He was just so fucking tired. Of everything.

Well, almost everything, as it seemed now.

“Sherlock! Don’t… what are you doing?” Donovans smile faded as the detective started poking at bits of the mangled arm with the end of her pen. “Ugh… that was one of my favourites!”

“Hm… very muscular… mostly upper arm… hm… wish I could take a look at the shoulder. Pity there’s only the arm…”

John sighed at the sight of Sherlock ignoring Donovans protest at his comment and the further use of her pen to pick up parts of the loose flesh. So much had changed, but somehow it all stayed the same. The crime scene gave him an excuse to stare at Sherlock while he was working, as were all other people in the circle.

The other man rose suddenly. “I’m taking a look at the place where the dog has apparently found the arm,” he explained. “Examine the remains, would you, John?”

Not waiting for an answer, Sherlock was already on his way down to the lake. John mumbled a sarcastic “Yes, sir...” and took a careful look around to decide on where to start. He settled on the hand, which still had three digits. The other fingers might be god knows where. Hopefully not in the dog’s stomach. It was a nauseating thought.

“Hey, what did you do to him?”, John was slightly startled as Donovan kneeled down next to him.

“What do you mean?”, the doctor asked while putting on some plastic gloves, he had taken on the habit of bringing along whenever he was out with Sherlock. You could never know.

“He’s different. Very different.”

“As opposed to?”, John was curious, but hoped his voice would not betray the emotion while he carefully lifted the detached hand a little above ground, to take a closer look at the thumb.

“Well, the past. You should’ve seen him when you weren’t around. Too nervous and stressed when on the scene, but too bored to stay away. It was hell. We mostly left him alone to look around. Lashing out at everyone when they came close,” Donovan explained. “I don’t know what you did, but he seemed almost… human? What happened?”

“I… I don’t know,” John answered truthfully, trying to focus his attention on the almost ripped off pinky finger. “He seems normal to me?”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. Well. No, actually. He has been behaving a little weird lately, I admit. But not… bad weird, you know?”

“Hm… I’d say it’s an improvement,” Donovan noted and winked. “Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.”

“I’m not doing anything!”, John said, a little bit too loud, catching the attention of some other officers, who turned to look at him.

“You’re not doing what?” suddenly Sherlock was standing behind him. “I hope you’re doing something. I didn’t bring you to admire the view.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I try.”

John chose to ignore Sherlocks answer. “It’s a mans arm. The fingers have heavy calluses. Whoever this arm belonged to has been using his hands a lot. A lot of physical activities, as you can also see from the muscle buildup… well, whatever is left of it. Too bad the arm is naked.”

“Not entirely,” Sherlock shook his head and kneeled down next to John, making a little shoo noise at Donovan to make her get up and make room for him. “Here, look at his wrist. The skin is tanned everywhere but at the wrist, suggesting an outside activity, like sport. This part is very white,” he started to explain while pointing. “But it’s too broad to be a wristwatch. Well, it could be, but the ones that are this big are very heavy and would probably not go well with sports. So what else do you have around your wrist while doing sports? Right. A sweatband. So, either a professional or a very passionate hobby sportsman. The muscles and calluses, combined with the tan leave only one logical conclusion: rowing.”

John was fascinated. Oh, how he had missed this.

Sherlock got up and faced Lestrade, who was just coming back from a police car. “We’re searching for a missing person who did a lot of rowing recently, hence the clear tan.”

“Get the boys at the Yard to look through the missing persons files,” the DI said to Donovan, who nodded and stepped away to call her colleagues back at the offices.

He turned back towards Sherlock. “So, this is connected?”

“I’m sure. The examination will show that the… previous owner of the arm is between 20 and 25, same as the age of the other body parts,” Sherlock glanced at John, stared for a few seconds, then looked back at Lestrade. “I have five theories about who the suspect could be. Got anything out of the person from last night?”

“Nothing. He refuses to talk.”

“Hm, doesn’t surprise me. He seems to be unable to act under stress and pressure. In most cases people would start to blabber in that situation, but he keeps quiet.”

“Yeah… exactly. How do you…?”

“Do you have ID on him?”

Lestrade grabbed his phone and brought up a file on the caught suspect. It showed a young man with reddish hair, a lot of freckles and sad eyes.

“Three theories,” stated Sherlock while looking through the information.

“Can I have a look?”, John asked. “I couldn’t see him very well in the dark park…”

Sherlock took the phone from Lestrades hands without asking and passed it to John. The DI exchanged an annoyed look with the doctor, who nodded slightly, as to apologise.

There was nothing out of the ordinary. Except the man was very tall. Well, he had seen that last night. Taller than Sherlock. Even leaner. John didn’t think that would be possible. But the arms he had grabbed to keep the suspect in place had felt almost bony. Weird.

“He’s the same age as the… body parts,” John remarked.

“Yes! He is, isn’t he!”, there was that joyful tone in Sherlocks voice, which the doctor recognised as the one he took on when nearing the mystery’s completion. “Come on, we have to check up on something!”

He whirled around and started to leave the crime scene, but not before pressing the pen back into Donovans hand, as he passed her. You could see her drop it immediately, shaking her hands. John hurried after his friend.

“Hey, we haven’t recorded your statement concerning last night yet!”, Lestrade yelled after them. “We need to know how you came up with these addresses!”

“It’s obvious, Graham!”, Sherlock answered loudly before stepping out of the taped off area.

“It’s Greg, you insufferable…”

John couldn’t suppress a grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm starting to find out where to go with this...


	3. Twilight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confession in the twilight.

John wasn’t sure how a simple enquiry at a respected university in London had led to him and Sherlock ending up crouching in the bushes under a huge tree, waiting for the night to fall. He played the steps of the last hours back in his head, still having about an hour to go until it was fully dark, and an empty stomach grumbling over the lack of lunch.

After Lestrade had asked about the addresses, but left in the dark, John had been treated to an explanation while he and Sherlock shared a short taxi ride to their next location.

“The body parts were all found in gardens or small parks, belonging to a couple with children. But not any children, all the same age. Which led me to believe that they were indeed connected,” the detective explained. “A cross reference with the missing people files confirmed my suspicion. Several people of the same age have been missing for a few days.”

“But how did that connect to those specific, ten addresses?”

“Easy. The missing people all went to the same university, same age. I only had to look up their classes. Find out where the parents of the rest live. These were the only ones in central London, where the rest of the body parts have been found.”

“That’s… Brilliant, actually…”

Sherlock tried not to look smug, but failed. John registered that, vowed to keep this in mind as another one of the incredibly human gestures, which the detective had displayed during the last days, but refrained from making a comment, as he wasn’t quite sure as to why that all happened.

“But the final address. The one where we encountered the big bloke. How…?”

“Further inquiry revealed that the missing people were all in the same gardening club… group… whatever you may call it. Only two not-missing students are in the club, as well. One of them is currently overseas in Hong Kong. The other’s parents live next to the park we caught the big idiot.”

“It all feels so simple, if you explain in that way.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It IS simple. I must be dreadful not seeing it.”

The taxi came to a stop. The driver interrupted whatever response John wanted to give, asking for the fare. Sherlock had already left the car, so the doctor paid. Well, in a way, it’s Sherlocks money anyway, he thought, but that didn’t give him the satisfaction he had hoped for, but rather another grim realisation.

After asking around the university for a while, some teachers had grown suspicious of the pair, obviously too old to be students and dressed to weirdly to be staff. They had been thrown out. Well, temporarily, at least. Sherlock was determined to get into the gardening club’s greenhouse, which was also on the university grounds. He said it was imperative to solving the crime, but gave no further reason as to why.

They had sneaked back onto the grounds and had been hiding for the night to fall, in the bushes next to greenhouse. It felt rather childish to John. But he was sure that they weren’t able to get to their goal any other way in the short time they had, and he had been trained to sit still and wait in the military. He hadn’t done so in a while, but as soon as he settled and calmed down, he found it surprisingly easy to slip back into an alert, but relaxed mode. His mind wandered all over the place, but always came back to Mary and his current, unresolved situation. No matter how hard he tried, it was always there.

Sherlock also didn’t have any problem with longer periods of silence, as he had so often demonstrated in the past. Which was why John was more than freaked out when after only half an hour of waiting, Sherlock suddenly started talking. And he just. Didn’t. Shut. Up.

It wasn’t like he was talking loudly. It was more of a constant whisper. And worse: It sounded like meaningless small talk. John didn’t even get half of what Sherlock murmured, half talking to himself. It was annoying and he grew more impatient by the minute. It didn’t help that they were sitting back to back against the tree trunk.

So he found himself turn around and stare at the back of Sherlocks head for a while, who in turn either didn’t see the motion or chose to ignore it, as he was happily talking on about the different plants they were seeing around them and the quality of the ground. If John were to talk about the current situation to anyone, they wouldn’t call Sherlock mad, but him. There was no way that this could be true.

“Sherlock…,” the doctor said in a low, almost threatening voice.

“...and the leaves are positively… yes?”, Sherlock stopped gesturing and turned his head towards the other man.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Uhm… talking?”

“Why?”

“Small talk?”, the detective suggested, as innocently as possible.

“You know that would include me talking to you at some point. Right now I’ve been listening to your monologue for over half an hour.”

“Don’t be absurd. It was 23 minutes, to be precise.”

“That’s really not the point.”

Sherlock frowned. “Then what is the point?”

“You’re behaving like… well, I can’t say you’re not behaving like Sherlock, because, god you’re still the master of annoying me… Hey, stop grinning!” John looked a little bit offended. “But this is strange. Different. Weird. Not only this, but other things during the last days. Weeks. Why do you do that?”

Sherlock was still grinning. “I thought you said it’s ‘not bad weird’.”

“Oh, god, you heard that?”

“Maybe.”

John hoped that the blush he felt creeping up to him was not visible in the twilight of the dusk. But Sherlock stopped grinning and took on a more serious expression.

“John, people change. You changed a lot. You can’t expect me to be the same person I was before. I’m not a machine. You told me that fact yourself.”

“Okay… That was unexpected. I’m supposed to be the reasonable one here, you know? I don’t know if I’m entirely comfortable to have that conversation right now.”

Sherlock showed a short, sad smile, which turned into an encouraging one as he realised that John was watching him intently, despite his words. “Of course. You don’t have to.”

“No, I want to. We never really talked about anything during the last weeks. I just showed up, and that was that,” John sighed deeply and let his gaze fall to the ground. “I know that it wasn’t the best course of action and…”

There was a long break, but Sherlock didn’t interrupt.

“...and, well… I’m really thankful. For the possibility to… let go, really. For you not asking questions. For…,” John swallowed and looked up at Sherlock. “...you, basically. I still owe you so much. And I can never repay you.”

The light was fading and the distant chatter of the remaining students on the university grounds was slowly dissipating, as well. The detective and his blogger looked at each other for what felt like a small eternity. Neither of them was capable of ending this moment of peace and understanding. For the first time in weeks, Johns head was not full of anger and sadness, but a strange calmness as he stared into Sherlocks eyes.

But as so often, the decision to end the moment was taken from them as Sherlock raised a finger to his lips and pointed to the greenhouse with his other hand. John turned around to find the beam of a flashlight flickering through the otherwise dark greenhouse, illuminating parts of the plants.

“That’s not the security, is it?”

“No…,” Sherlock said and sounded excited.

“Did you know that someone would show up?”

“Know? Frankly, no. I assumed we had a chance of running into someone the night after the accomplice was caught. But people are so predictable, I was almost certain.”

“Why here?”

“You will know soon enough…”

Sherlock cautiously raised and patted his clothes to remove and dust clinging to them. John mimicked him, also getting to his feet. 

The summer night was calm and warm. The only noises were from insects and a slow breeze rattling the leaves of the surrounding trees. And a sudden, sharp intake of breath. John froze as Sherlock grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back, pressing a light kiss to his right cheek while leaning over his shoulder from behind.

“You’re repaying me every second, John. With so much more than I can ever give you,” he whispered into the doctors ear. “Now, come on. We have a criminal to catch.”

Struggling to keep up with Sherlocks fast step, John had no choice but to shake his shock off and follow the detective through the warm night air. Even though he had been resting for the whole afternoon, he felt entirely out of breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rather short. Sorry.


	4. Morning Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an old friend appears and life goes on.

Another morning, which came much too soon. At least my head doesn’t hurt today, John thought while rubbing his eyes. Putting pressure on his cheek still hurt, but not as badly as yesterday. He slowly sat up and had a look at the clock on his nightstand. 8am? That gave him, what, some whole 7 hours of sleep? That must’ve been a record for the last weeks.

Stretching his arms and legs, he heard several joints pop in ways they probably weren’t supposed to and then let himself slump back into the fluffy comfort of his blanket. It wasn’t exactly cold, but he just couldn’t sleep without the comfort of a blanket. Turning around for a while until he found a comfortable resting position, he enjoyed the peace and quiet of his room.

He couldn’t remember the last day where he hadn’t been up until late at night chasing down some evildoer. Or sleeping in, for that matter. He had decided to remain at Baker Street for a while to have time for himself, away from everything. To have time to think. It seemed to him that he had barely a minute to himself since the night he had stumbled back into Sherlocks flat. John still thought of this as Sherlocks flat, not theirs. He was only crashing here until he had found where to go next. He kept telling himself that. But the part of him, which wondered how he could’ve ever left was getting louder by the day.

The noise of the doorbell ripped him from his thoughts, but he wasn’t curious enough to get up yet. The pillow was too comfortable and he was entirely too tired. The doorbell rang again. Of course, Sherlock wouldn’t react if he wasn’t expecting anyone. Mrs. Hudson would probably get the door soon and escort the guest upstairs, only to scold Sherlock for his behaviour. John grinned. There were some constants in his life, after all. The doorbell rang for a third time. Was Sherlock not in? John was contemplating getting up, but that would mean dressing really fast. He was not going to answer the door in a sweaty shirt and his boxers.

The sound of a door opening and closing took the decision from him and he settled back into the sheets. He told himself that he wasn’t curious enough to see who came to Baker Street this early on a Thursday morning. He told himself to go back to sleep to get the rest he had been craving for days. He… jumped out of bed, grabbed some clothes and disappeared into the bathroom. Curiosity killed the cat, John thought, and had to laugh to himself.

Ten minutes later, he was freshly showered and dressed in his usual shirt and jumper combo. He opened the door to the sitting room to be welcomed by the sight of Sherlock sitting in his chair, hands in his signature thinking pose. Next to him, his brother Mycroft was looking through several photos lying on the detective's desk.

“Ah, good morning Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said and nodded slightly. “I wasn’t aware that you’ve moved back in.”

“Good morning Mycroft. Long time no see. Well, I didn’t see you, but I am most certain that you saw me, and know exactly how long I’ve been crashing here,” John said slowly, but his tone was not hostile, as one would expect with those words, but rather amused. He realised that he was quite happy to meet Mycroft again. It almost felt like meeting family. Of course he would never tell the older Holmes sibling that. Or Sherlock, for that matter.

“You still have your wits about you, I see,” Mycroft smiled. “I have learned that people are usually rather not so fond of me knowing things, which I have no right to know, by their standards. One learns to talk like they don’t know everything.”

“You don’t know everything,” John answered, stressing the last word.

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” the other man smirked.

John shrugged and moved into the kitchen area, asking Mycroft if he’d join him for his morning tea.

“I see that at least one person in this house has the decency to offer a cup of tea for their visitor.”

“Oh, bug off, Mycroft,” Sherlock immediately retaliated without moving his posture. “You’re not here for pleasantries.”

“We’re still family, brother mine. It wouldn’t hurt you.”

Sherlock looked up to meet Mycrofts eyes, but his brother already started to move towards the kitchen, where John was measuring the tea leaves. They started exchanging meaningless small talk about the last weeks, almost exclusively about John. Of course Mycroft wouldn’t be able to talk about his work. It seemed like a perfectly normal scene, but something felt off, even by Sherlocks standards.

Of course. Obvious. The fact that they were talking like that, at all, was a curiosity in itself. Sherlock wasn’t aware of any other people Mycroft would engage like that. Take an interest. He briefly wondered if his brother would do small talk with Anthea. Probably not. Hm, interesting… Mycroft could’ve easily sent the pictures or called him. But he was here, talking to John. He stored this little fact in his memory to analyse later. He was currently engaged in another train of thought.

John was awake. He was distracted. Good. But that wouldn’t be the case for long. He had been trying to drag out the case of the detached body parts for as long as he could. Untypical, but it had to be done. But now they had found the correct culprit. Had found the victims. Sherlock had figured out the motive before anyone had the chance to confess. So easy. So predictable. Sigh…

No, don’t get distracted. Focus. He would have two more chances to fill up time with the case. John would ask about the conclusion. Then he would write it up on his blog. No wait, he didn’t do that anymore. It had been hard enough to convince the doctor to keep up writing after the first episode with Moriarty. John had been convinced that his blogging had been the trigger for this most brilliant of all antagonists to focus on Sherlock, in the first place. After reluctantly picking up writing again, he had all but stopped after his wedding. Sherlock would never admit that he had always been looking forward to John’s writeups. He hoped he hadn’t given his joy away, through his blog comments. Well, maybe it was time to admit, if it meant getting John back to writing. It was something that clearly brought him happiness.

“Aren’t you going to join us?” he heard a voice ask, but he couldn’t place who had asked, because both John and Mycroft were looking at him from the kitchen table. Mycroft was sitting next to John, cup in hand, which was odd, because he usually preferred to stand. Interesting again...

Without answering, Sherlock jumped up and walked over to take a seat next to John. He was rewarded with a cup of hot tea being pushed towards him and a warm smile from John. He cautiously sniffed at the hot beverage, registering that it was John’s favourite blend, the unholy union. But much to his friends surprise, he took a sip anyway. If John knew that Sherlock had taken to drink this tea frequently while the doctor wasn’t living at Baker Street, the detective would probably die of embarrassment. So he made a face, which showed his disapproval of the brew and John could grin, like he had planned. Everything was alright.

“If you have to flirt, you could wait until I’m gone, you know,” Mycroft said quietly, which made Sherlock almost spit out the tea. “Not that I have a problem with that, mind you…”

John cleared his throat. “So, why are you here so early, anyway, Mycroft?”

This very obvious attempt in changing the subject earned him a raised eyebrow, but the older Holmes made no further comment. Sherlock refrained from pointing it out, as well.

“I’m here to confirm my dear brothers theories on the motive,” he explained and pointed to Sherlocks desk. “The photos over there show the remaining member of the gardening club in Hong Kong, trying to sell a smuggled plant to the highest bidder in an auction.”

“A plant?”, John asked, picked up his cup and went over the the sitting room to have a look at the pictures.

“A rose, to be precise. Do you remember Connie Prince? Some roses are very valuable.”

“Valuable enough to kill over?”, John mumbled while trying to make sense of the people shown in the various CCTV pictures lying in front of him.

“Apparently not. The suspect just wanted to threaten the… ring leader, so to say.”

“I still don’t get the whole picture, Sherlock,” John shrugged.

Ah, there it was. Sherlock had been waiting for that question. He took a big breath and launched into his explanation, even though Mycroft was shooting him an annoyed glance. Well, he was doing this for John. His brother could take a hike.

“The culprit had been part of the gardening circle since he joined the university. His pet project was breeding roses. One of his creations was extremely rare and won high prices at competitions. But he was never credited, only the circle. Which gave our friend, who is currently in Hong Kong, the chance to step into the spotlight,” Sherlock sounded like he didn’t even need to breathe while talking like a waterfall. “Our culprit was slowly bullied out of the circle by the other members, until he was forced to leave it completely. Of course they kept his rose within their group and continued to profile themselves, making money off it.”

“That is nasty,” the doctor shook his head.

“People are nasty,” Mycroft shrugged.

“You would know, wouldn't you?”, Sherlock shot back, which earned him a forced grin.

“Hey, be nice to your brother,” John said, but not without smiling. He knew how much Mycroft loved his little brother, even though he would never admit it in public. And Sherlock was more fond of his sibling that his behaviour would suggest.

After exchanging some more quarreling looks, Sherlock picked up his speech again: “Well, the bullied man clearly had some anger issues. Instead of giving up or trying any reasonable approach, he started kidnapping his former circle members…”

“... and removed body parts? Why?”

“I wasn’t sure about that either, but Lestrade got a confession out of him. Apparently he was both threatening the ring leader and taking revenge on his bullies at the same time. If someone had actively bullied him, he took fingers from them. If someone had just stood by and listened, but did nothing to help him, he took his ears. And so on.”

“And then he left the evidence with the parents of the students. Why?”

“Maybe so the other members would get the connection, but no one else,” the detective shrugged. “Well, no else else, except me.”

“Stop sounding so smug,” the older Holmes brother sighed. “Well, sorry to cut this short, but I have to take my leave. Important business, you know?”

“Out saving the world again, Mycroft?”, John laughed.

“Oh, no. Just the United Kingdom this time,” Mycroft actually winked as he left the room, leaving the other two to their devices.

“I just don’t get why the the arm was left in St.James Park instead of a garden, like the previous parts?”, John asked as he was taking a seat back at the table. “Do you think he got nervous after his accomplice was caught? Maybe he thought someone had seen through his pattern, and it was too risky to deposit more parts at a known address?”

“Probably, yes. Or he was just crazy. I mean, who goes around cutting off parts of the people he doesn’t like? If anyone went by that logic, I’d have dismembered half of London already.”

John had to laugh so hard, he almost dropped his cup.

“No, I don’t think that’s quite true. I think half of London would have you dismembered long before you could even attempt to try.”

Sherlock shrugged, but had to join in the laughter. A fitting end to a case, which had been drawn out to bring a little distraction and happiness back.

“So, are you going to write that up on your blog? I think it would make for an interesting read,” the detective said, trying to pass it off as something said by-the-way, while busying himself with getting some glass tubes from a cupboard behind John.

“The blog, huh?,” the other man said, contemplating. “I haven’t made an entry in ages. I’m not even sure anyone would read my ramblings anymore.”

“Did that ever stop you before?”

“I suppose not.”

That was enough encouraging. Sherlock didn’t want to press the matter, sounding any more suspicious. He had planted the thought in Johns head. That was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Mycroft. No, you don't understand. I fucking love Mycroft. I can hear the dialogue in his voice in my head, while I write it.


	5. The Blog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John finds himself drifting in nostalgia.

No, this isn’t working. This isn’t working at all. 

It’s too quiet. It was furiously calm all day, yesterday. And everything is alright today. Everything is so perfect. It’s so dreadful.

After Mycroft had left, they had almost spent the whole day indoors. Luckily, Sherlock had a whole backlog of experiments in his head, which required various ‘ingredients’ from Barts, so he and John busied themselves for quite a while. He didn’t even complain when John made the suggestion to check up on the victims of the ‘Green Thumb’ case, as he had started to call it. (“You get it? Because we found a thumb on the grass, and it was also about gardening… oh, forget it…”) 

Incredibly, none of the affected people had died of blood loss, not even the now one-armed gentlemen, who would clearly have to give up on rowing now, Sherlock thought. They seemed rather well off for a group of people, who had been held in a cellar, continuously in fear of a man with a big knife coming back to cut of more body parts. But the human mind is curiously well in adapting to even the gruesomest of situations - Sherlock knew that by experience.

Now he was pacing around the kitchen table like a caged tiger. John had given up on commenting on his friends behaviour a while ago. He had settled on the couch with his laptop and a pot of tea. Spurred by Sherlocks comment a day before, he had started to read through his old blog entries. It brightened Sherlocks day to secretly look at all the emotions running over his flatmates face, while the other was engrossed in floating in nostalgia. At least he was distracted by happier times.

Well, most of the time. Sherlock could pinpoint the moment, John had reached the entry, he wished he could erase from his memory all together. The time when he was gone. Dead. It hurt seeing John reading through this again, but it also felt curiously good to see that the doctor wasn’t skipping the episode. He was embracing all the emotions again, not just the good ones.

When John finally reached the last entry, which hadn’t been written by himself, but Sherlock, he couldn’t keep it together and started laughing out loud.

“I’m not sure if I should laugh or cry about this,” he said, more to himself, but as it was the first thing he had said all day, Sherlock picked up on it immediately.

“About what?”

“The comments on the last blog entry,” John explained and looked up to see Sherlock stopping his nervous walk to approach him on the couch. “It is hilarious, but it stirs up so much…”

“What comments?”

Sherlock slumped down on the couch, next to John, and leaned over to see the laptop screen as nonchalantly as possible. As his hair brushed against Johns face, the other jumped back a bit, involuntarily. The memory of the night on the university grounds was still very, very present in his mind, though he hadn’t worked up the courage to bring it up again. Sherlock noted the movement immediately and retreated, giving John an apologetic look.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Is it your cheek? Does it still hurt?”

John blinked a few times until he realised what Sherlock was talking about. The injury had been the last thing on his mind. The bruise was still visible - discolored skin on his face showing it clearly. The swelling had gone back after one day, and moving the muscles on his face didn’t make it hurt anymore. He thought about nodding anyway, but scolded himself for this cowardly gesture. So he shook his head.

“No, sorry. It’s alright. I just… remembered something.”

Sherlock frowned a little, but then his expression softened. Does he know?, John thought. Well, of course he knows, he’s Sherlock Holmes. But if he doesn’t say anything… should I?

“John?”

“Yes?”, the doctor sounded way too startled, in his own opinion.

“You have been staring at me without saying anything for a while.”

“Have I?”

“Yes. You never do that.”

“For how long?”

“About two minutes.”

John shook his head. He had to monitor his actions more carefully. That was… embarrassing. He was glad to realise that Sherlock had chosen to focus his attention on the laptop screen instead of his face. John was probably blushing like mad. But still, the way the detectives hand was resting on the trackpad, arm lying across Johns body, threw him off a little. It was way more intimate than he could currently handle.

“What were you even thinking, writing an entry like that?”, the doctor asked, more to distract himself.

“I’m not sure I want to answer that.”

“Why? Because the comments suggest that you have been doing nothing but monitoring activity on the blog entry for several days? Have you been so lonely?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, but retreated his arm. John immediately regretted his choice of words, but before he could think about phrasing an apology, he felt Sherlocks arms again, this time surrounding him, pressing him closer to the detective.

“Sherlock?”, he stammered.

“Please don’t say anything. Just listen. Please.”

John relaxed a little into Sherlocks touch and put one hand cautiously on his friends arm. Then he nodded, and even though Sherlock had pressed his head into Johns shoulder, he took a notice of the motion, the confirmation he needed, and took a deep breath.

“John, I am always lonely when you’re not with me. I didn’t realise that until I was gone. But after I came back, you were gone. After the wedding, it felt like I would never share your life again. No matter how often we saw each other, your home was no longer here. No longer with me.”

“Sherlock…”

“Shh, please. Don’t. It’s hard enough to say this, as it is.”

“Alright….”

“Thank you.”

It took a few moments until Sherlock started talking again.

“I know this is about you. I should entirely be about you. And that’s why I feel so guilty about my happiness, having you back in my life, when you’re hurting so much. And it crushes my heart to see you like this. And I just don’t know what to do.”

For a while, the flat was silent. John had to process all the words he had just heard, and it was quite a task to do so. Sherlock didn’t sound like he had said all that was swirling in his head, but refrained from making any further comment.

Then, slowly, John turned around and put his arms around Sherlock, one hand on the back of the detectives head, pressing his face into the wild curls. Sherlock was shaking a little, grabbing on to Johns clothes, as if his life would depend on it. John knew he had to choose his words carefully.

“I have... no idea what this is, but I like it... and I am going to stay,” the doctor said, very slowly. “I’m not going to fight it. But I can’t just jump.”

“I know,” Sherlock mumbled into Johns cloth. “I know. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to tell you. I hate to put you on the spot like this. I just want to give you all the time in the world.”

“I’m glad you told me. No matter what. Don’t hide these things from me. Not anymore,” he smiled. “I’ve always known that you are the most human person I have ever met, and all the people in the world are foolish to not see that.”

There was a short pause.

“You know that ‘I can’t just jump.’ was a really poor choice of words?”, Sherlock mumbled, but even though John couldn’t see his face, the voice betrayed the big grin the detective must’ve had on his face.

“You’re an utter bastard, is what you are!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had something else planned for the chapter, but the characters took over. Send help!


	6. Airplanes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it gets very loud and everything slides back together.

God, it was loud in here. John took a cautious look around while walking behind Sherlock through the brightly lit hangar, though they kept mostly to the shadows, as they weren’t quite allowed in here, at least not anymore. They had an appointment for looking around the premises during the afternoon, but that had mostly been used for scouting out the area. Now they were back to search some of the places that hadn’t been part of the official tour.

John stumbled after the detective, both enthusiastic about the investigation and deadly tired. Also still light headed about the earlier developments and entirely too much in thought to concentrate on the matter at hand… But he couldn’t also let Sherlock go out alone. How many late nights in a row did he have recently?

\---

It had been a long day. After Sherlocks joke, John had pushed him off the couch, and stated that Sherlock was a terrible person, but not without laughing while saying so. Sherlock had apologised, but retreated to the safe haven that was the kitchen, as John stated that he very well had to write up the case of the “Green Thumb” now, thank you.

The atmosphere had been very light after that episode, and Sherlock had to force himself not to hum a melody while distributing chemicals between several glass vials, which would’ve been more than uncharacteristically. As John joined him in the kitchen to make another pot of tea, he realised that the doctor made a point of just so brushing past Sherlock, every time he moved around him. The detectives hairs were standing on edge with every touch, but somehow he didn’t dare look at John. His feelings were a mess that moment.

John.

John was staying. With him. Here. He had said so.

He was staying.

Sherlock hadn’t felt so at peace with himself for… he couldn’t remember how long.

It wasn’t all good. Not yet. He knew that. But he allowed himself this little moment of joy, because he felt a gentle, quiet happiness from John. The one he had longed to see for so long.

But there was something in the back of his head, which scratched at that happiness, and Sherlock was glad that John had already returned to the sitting room and couldn’t see his face at the moment, when he remembered. He hadn’t lied when he said that seeing John in this sad and passive state was crushing his heart. 

John shouldn’t be any of this. He was a stable and reliable person with the biggest heart Sherlock had ever seen in another human. It would take time and effort. But Sherlock was determined to see it through, in any way he could, even though he knew he probably wasn’t the first choice for mending someones heart. He had resolved himself to make every possible effort, back during that night when his doctor had returned to Baker Street. 

For John. Always for John. John had kept him right - now it was his turn.

\---

“Are you sure there’s no one back here? They’re still testing…,” John said, louder than he wanted to, over the roaring sound of the airplane engine. Of course it had to be an engine test hangar, of all things. His head was starting to hurt, and he he wasn’t even hung over.

“If the info was right, we’ll find the documents in the engineers luggage. I doubt he has left yet… too suspicious while the tests are still ongoing,” Sherlock replied, but instead of talking loudly, leaned over and placed his mouth next to Johns ear. “And that is also why we have to move tonight. He could be anywhere tomorrow.”

John nodded. On one hand, he understood the facts. On the other, it would’ve been nice to have a least one evening a week for himself. One in a month, even. Well, if he was really, really not willing to run around like that every day, he wouldn’t do it, now would he? John smiled to himself, something Sherlock didn’t miss and looked at him quizzically. The doctor just shrugged and grinned as a response. 

Something had changed this morning, but John didn’t feel very uncertain. The only thing frightening about that was how little had changed between him and Sherlock after that tender moment. No awkwardness, no clumsy attempts to explain. Just that silent, deep understanding, which they had so often shared in the past, and apparently still shared now.

“Nothing,” this time, John also leaned in to talk into Sherlocks ear, but in his case he had to stand on tiptoes and put his hand on the detectives shoulder, to pull him down a little. “Let’s get these documents and get out of here, so Mycroft owes us a favour.”

Sherlock grinned and nodded in reply. This was where he belonged, in the field with John. For the time being, all bad memories were banned. Only the case counted. Well, there was still something nagging at him, which just didn’t go away...

\---

The morning had been quiet. Too quiet. So quiet that Sherlock was almost going mad glancing at John, checking to see if the doctor was still writing or lost in thought again. He had to come up with something for them to do as soon as John started idling around. But what?

He texted Lestrade. But the DI didn’t have anything interesting at hand right now. Sherlocks offer to have a look at some of the minor cases was immediately dismissed.

**If I can’t solve at least some cases without your help, someone will fire me for incompetency. GL**

**You don’t understand. I NEED something to do. Lives depend on it. SH**

**No. Shoot up your apartment, for all I care. GL**

**I’ll show your encouragement to Mrs. Hudson, when she complains. SH**

There weren’t any more replies. Sherlock had to employ other options. Unfortunately the only other options to acquire an interesting crime scene were either committing a murder himself or call Mycroft. 

Quite some time went into contemplating the first option, as Sherlock was fairly convinced he could pull off a murder without getting caught. The only catch was that he’d be the one solving the crime, and he would know the answer already. So, no, that wasn’t an option. Well, that and the fact that John probably wouldn’t approve of him murdering someone for his entertainment. 

Probably.

Sherlock got up and retreated to his room. John didn’t look up, all caught up in writing. It seemed like he really enjoyed returning to blogging. Sherlock couldn’t suppress a smile. But as he had carefully closed the door behind him, his face fell. He tried to get into the right frame of mind to ask Mycroft for work. His brother would jump at the possibility, Sherlock was sure. But that didn’t mean he was comfortable asking a favour of Mycroft, which was basically what this was all about.

Sherlock sighed and dialed the number.

“Sherlock? You never call.”

“Hello to you, too.”

“Let me correct that: You never call, unless you want something. What is it?”

“I am bored. I need a case. Something. Anything.”

“Ask your friends at NSY, then,” Mycroft mused, but after a short pause, in which his younger brother didn’t reply added: “Ah, yes. You wouldn’t call if they had anything for you to do.”

“Obviously.”

“What did you do to annoy them? Oh, that was rhetorical. Don’t answer it. I know that they have more work than they can handle, right now.”

“They do?,” Sherlock snorted. “Oh, yes. Of course they do. But Lestrade fears he could lose face if I solve everything for him. This idiot. So small-minded. What good does it do them, if the cases are unsolved, no matter how it happens?”

“Sherlock, you’re being untypically emotional. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Don’t feign concern. I just need a case.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “So you said. Well, I might have something…”

“What do you want?”

“Oh, the matter is related to one of the cases at the Yard, but I’d appreciate if you could single out some sensible documents from the ones they want to retrieve, and hand them to me directly, instead of going through the official way.”

“I see.”

“ I take that as a yes, shall I. Well, then… here’s where the documents are…”

It had taken Mycroft a while to explain the situation, but in the end, Sherlock had a very good reason for him and John to stay out late tonight. Again. He left his bedroom and let the door noisily fall shut, which caught Johns attention, just as planned.

“Hey, what’s up?”, the doctor asked as Sherlock returned to his place at the kitchen table.

“Mycroft called,” Sherlock lied. Well, it was a little, white lie. “He asked a favour of me. Something he needs back.”

“Oh?”, John looked up and put down his laptop screen so far it was halfway closed. It was his sign of showing interest and attention, but not completely letting go of what he was doing at the moment, as long as he didn’t know what was going on. “What is it?”

“He asked me to retrieve some documents before the police could get to them. They contain sensitive information,” Sherlock said, his voice annoyed, as to not betray that he was the one who had asked for the case. “Apparently they’re at an airport hangar testing facility.”

“How are we going to get in there?”

Sherlock tried hard not to grin. John had taken the bait, asking ‘we’, not ‘you’.

“He’s made an appointment for us to check out the facilities and determine exactly that,” he said. “It’s in… about two hours from now.”

“Well, that should give me enough time to write a draft of the “Green Thumb” and for you to finish… whatever it is you’re doing with those fingers.”

“Right,” Sherlock sat back down and focussed his attention back on the pinky finger, floating in a solution.

For half an hour, it was very quiet in the flat. The only louder sounds were some John really didn’t want to know the source of, and the constant pressing of keys on his keyboard.

After a while the detective glanced at the cupboard behind him. The one, where he stored all the utensils he regularly used for various experiments. John would normally never look into that cupboard. Too many bad memories with specimens in the fridge made him leave a cautious space between him and Sherlocks antics. Which was exactly why the detective had chosen that hiding place. He didn’t even know why he had hidden the envelope.

It had been earlier that week. And early on that day, as well. Sherlock had been keeping John up for a lot of late nights, so the doctor had always slept in during the mornings. He hadn’t heard the doorbell. He hadn’t heard the voices at the door.

Mary had come by to bring the divorce papers. She had already signed. John would have to place his signature to make it final. As John had made no more attempt to visit her during the last weeks, she also didn’t ask for him, just pressed the envelope into Sherlocks hands with a bitter grin.

Sherlock was surprised by his indifference, seeing Mary for the first time since John had left her life. Yes, she was the woman, who had shot him. He wasn’t sure if he hadn’t done the same to her, in that situation. That was confusing, and he didn’t really want to think about it. 

But she was also the person, who had picked up John in his darkest hour. His hour of need. The time Sherlock had thought would save John, but had utterly destroyed him. Only now did he learn the implications of what he’d done. Done to John.

It was a miracle having him back in his life, after everything. He had felt as if Mary had taken John from him, but now he realised that it was his own behaviour, which had driven his best friend from him. And he lived every day thinking of all the ways he wanted to make it up, but knew he never could.

Now he had been given a chance, and he would not waste it by forcing his own feelings on John again, destroying the fragile bond they had once again woven. This time it was all about his friend. Sherlock had waited so long, he could wait even longer. He could wait forever, if need be. All that mattered was that John was with him, and this time he would be the one to make him happy.

So why couldn’t he give the divorce papers to John? Was he afraid that the doctor would decide to go back to Mary, confronted with the choice of signing? Maybe. He couldn’t tell. Not yet. But time was running out. Mary would start to wonder why there had been no response. But, no, he couldn’t do it yet.

\---

“This is it!”, John exclaimed, shining a flashlight beam onto a name tag on one of the luggage pieces in the airports crews break room. “That’s the guy we’re looking for.”

Sherlock stepped over to him and examined the suitcase. Yes, this was it. The engineer had flown in with the aircraft, which was scheduled for engine tests in the hangar, avoiding the normal customs, as crew. He was the perfect man to smuggle documents. They would be hidden between other, official papers for the aircraft.

The combination was easily figured out, as the suitcase was heavily used. It had apparently been carried around a lot, always locked, so the wrong numbers on the wheel were scratched. Only a few numbers - and of course the right ones - were in perfect condition, as they were always hidden within the wheel during travel. The scratches weren’t all that visible to the untrained eye, but that was no problem to Sherlock.

Carefully going through the piles of papers, Sherlock only picked the few envelopes, he had been told to get by his brother, leaving the not-so-secret ones for the police investigation to find. It was still enough in here for the officers to solve their case of the stolen documents. He would give them a tip when they returned. The culprit would be confused as to why the most important papers were missing, but in the end it would even help him get less time in jail.

That had been easy. Too easy for Sherlock. Not much of a challenge, no mystery to solve. But he had helped his brother, which was something he sometimes enjoyed to do, even though he would never tell him. And of course had gotten John out of the flat, occupied. Tired. He would once again have a deep sleep and not worry about other things. Good.

“Something’s different,” John said suddenly. “The engine’s off. They’re done.”

“Shit. Let’s get out of here.”

They hurried out of the back door. The break room was a small building inside the hangar, almost stuck to it’s back wall. This was where the detective and his blogger were hiding in the shadows, now that the technicians wrapped up their day. Both crouched behind some containers, back to back, to be able to surveill their surroundings in all directions.

“John, take the hand from your weapon,” Sherlock mumbled under his breath. “We’re not going to have to shoot anyone.”

“How did you… ah, forget it. How are we going to get out now?”

“The same way we got in. But we run.”

“Run?”

“It’s that or staying here all night.”

“Alright,” Sherlock could hear the excitement in Johns voice. “On three?”

The detective grinned. “On three.”

He never felt so alive, as when he was running together with John. They were always running from danger in possibly the worst situations. But they were running together. Only him and John against the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is so cute, I want to hug him. Aaah....


	7. The Reveal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock admits something and John realises.

John wondered why it wasn’t a surprise to him when a big, black car was waiting for them a after they had left the airport grounds. Leaning against it, like it was the most normal thing to do to pick up two people stealing (retrieving, really) government secrets in the middle of the night, was Anthea. Well, probably it was. To her, at least. John briefly wondered in what kind of situations Mycroft had put her in during her years of employment.

She wasn’t even looking up from her phone when Sherlock and John jumped into the car, only gave a little knock on the roof before she joined them. The car was moving before anyone of the airport officers could even see it, and John was sure that they wouldn’t even find it on their security tapes, the next day.

“Good evening, Anthea,” John said after he had calmed down a little. “So nice of you to join us.”

“Hum…,” she said, absentminded. “Don’t mention it.”

“Where’s Mycroft?”, Sherlock asked.

“He will join us later.”

“Of course. It wouldn’t do for him to be seen around here.”

“Then why did he send the car?”, John wondered. “It’s not like it can’t be linked to him.”

“He told me that it wouldn’t do for you two to walk all the way back to the city in the middle of the night, with no public transport options,” Anthea explained, and looked up for the first time, lips in a knowing smile.

“So he does have a heart,” John laughed.

Sherlock turned his head towards John. “I know he does. You would do good not to mention it to him. Well... at least pretend you’re not knowing that he is listening to us right now and…”

A short laughter from Anthea interrupted him. Sherlock and John looked at her as if she was an alien. She just shook her head, smile still present. “Someone just told me to tell you to shut up.”

“Sorry, Mycroft,” John said to Sherlocks big brother, who picked up on that through two cameras and five hidden microphones. “And thank you.”

\---

The meeting with Mycroft had been short and simple. They dropped off the documents and he had told them to go to sleep, because they were both looking absolutely dreadful. John readily agreed on that and even Sherlock had to admit he was tired. Back at the flat, the doctor didn’t even make it to his bedroom. Sherlock found him sleeping in his chair, just as on the night his friend had come back to him. A wave of nostalgia hit him, even though that hadn’t been all that long ago. He lightly brushed Johns hair, letting the events of the last weeks play back in his head.

Yes, John was looking much better now. Tired, of course - which was mostly Sherlocks fault. But somehow lighter. More balanced. Happier? Sherlock wished he could do that diagnose with ease, but he couldn’t be sure. His thoughts drifted back to the envelope in the cupboard. Should he just leave it with John, so he’d find it when he woke up? No, no… Sherlock wanted to be present. Be there to record all of Johns emotions. Be there to catch him when he falls. So, not tonight. Tomorrow, maybe…

He shook Johns shoulder.

“Hey, you should really sleep in your bed.”

“Hrrmm…. Don’t want to move… too tired…”

“You’re the doctor. Tell me what it does to your back, sleeping here.”

John opened his eyes and looked up. “You’re concerned.”

Sherlock made an offended pouting noise. “Of course I am.”

“If you’re that concerned…,” John looked like he was contemplating, but then grinned and raised his arms slightly. “...then carry me to my bed.”

“What?”, Sherlock blushed furiously. There was no way John couldn’t see that, even in the dim light.

“It’s 4am. I am dead. I will not move. If you want me to sleep in my bed, carry me there. It’s not like that would be the first time.”

First he was frozen, confused. But Sherlock reminded John of a cat during the next moments. He was suddenly more than interested, focussed, almost treading in place to get rid of the built up excitement. So cute…

Wait? Cute? John shook his head. What did he just think? What…

Suddenly, Sherlock was in front of him, arm under his legs, the other one grabbing the torso under his shoulders. In one swift motion the detective was standing again and John felt his head slump onto Sherlocks chest, which made the other man jump a little. John looked up and locked eyes with the detective for a few seconds, then smiled and drifted off into sleep.

Sherlock stood in the sitting room, unable to move. He didn’t care about his own tiredness or that John was getting heavy in his arms. He was just too overwhelmed by this closeness, John so readily leaning against him, so relaxed… so trusting. But in the end his body betrayed him, muscles aching from exertion. With a deep sigh, he started to move towards Johns bedroom, placing careful steps so that his friend would not wake up.

A few minutes later, Sherlock closed Johns bedroom door behind him. This time, he had undressed John down to his shirt and boxers, carefully placing him under the blanket. He had allowed himself a moment to watch the other man sleep, and hoped he wouldn’t have any bad dreams tonight. Hm… sentiment… A voice in his head told him that this was getting really dangerous, but Sherlock ignored it.

He wanted to go to bed, but his head was too full of thoughts to relax. Sherlock found himself in the kitchen and decided that the best way to calm down would be a cup of hot tea. It was the logical thing to do for a British person, after all. Just one cup… 

Sherlock blinked as he tasted the tea. He had, without realising, brewed himself a cup of Johns unholy union tea, as he had done so often while his friend hadn’t lived at Baker Street. It was okay now, but he really had to take care of doing this when John was around to see it. Some appearances had to be kept up. But right now, he was relishing in the taste, knowing that the person, who loved that tea was right here, in the same flat.

\---

“Sherlock… What did you tell me about sleeping in the chair?”

Sherlock stirred and opened his eyes slightly. The light was blinding and it took a few moments to adjust. Something golden was blocking the light falling onto his face and he let his eyes focus to see Johns face, smiling at him.

“John…?”, he mumbled. “Why are you in my bedroom?”

“Because you’re not in your bedroom. You fell asleep in the sitting room, after scolding me for the same thing, you idiot.”

Sherlock looked around and propped himself up. He had indeed fallen asleep in the sitting room. But when he realised where exactly he was sitting, he squirmed. Johns smile, almost a giggle, didn’t help.

“So when I sleep in my chair, it’s not allowed, but you can?”, John laughed. “I’m sensing some kind of double standards here.”

Sherlock didn’t like the direction this was taking, he was feeling entirely too embarrassed. At least John wasn’t mad at him. That was a plus. And it made for some excellent distraction, even though it hadn’t been planned. 

No, that hadn’t been planned at all. He was just going to have that cup of tea and then go to bed. Just one cup… Sherlock jerked up, as he saw John take the same cup, with the now cold tea, which had been standing on the floor next to the chair. John noticed the motion and shot the detective an investigative look.

“You almost knocked it over with your feet when sitting up,” he said and shrugged.

“Oh, yes, thank you,” Sherlock mumbled. Johns nose wasn’t as good at his, or so he hoped. He wouldn’t realise what tea it was. Sherlock was usually drinking black tea, no problem here.

It felt like an eternity until Sherlock heard the tea cup being emptied into the sink and he breathed a sigh of relief. It was ridiculous, getting this riled up over a cup of tea. But he wasn’t quite ready to explain. Would John even care? All this uncertainty made him feel confused, totally out of it. It was not like him, getting worked up over these stupid, little things.

“Fancy another cuppa?”, he heard John ask from the kitchen, behind him. “I threw yours out. It was cold.”

“Yes,” Sherlock mumbled, but then cleared his throat and added, louder. “Yes, I’d like that.”

While John busied himself, he got up from the chair and went to the bathroom. When he returned a few minutes later - teeth brushed, a futile attempt at taming his hair - John was already sitting in a chair, one cup in front of him, the other one standing at the opposite side of the table.

Sherlock sat down, picked up the cup. He sniffed it. No, not Johns tea. This was Yorkshire Gold. So John had made two different cups, as he normally did. So he hadn’t realised. Good.

“It’s tea,” John said, when he saw that Sherlock tried to guess the type of liquid in his cup by smelling it. “Don’t worry, I didn’t put anything in. I’m not you.”

Sherlock gave Johns genuine grin and forced mock-grin in response. But he was glad to see John in a good mood, so he softened his features a little and took a sip of the tea while smiling.

The day was warm, the tea was good, John looked happy. Sherlock should’ve been able to relax, but his thoughts traveled back to his agenda. There wasn’t anything planned for today. He had asked Mycroft yesterday, he couldn’t do it again today. That would be suspicious, so soon. Maybe Lestrade had something. … Oh! They could drop by NSY to report their tips about the engineer with the stolen documents. That was a good plan. Sherlock grabbed his mobile phone from the table and started typing.

“What are you doing?”, John asked.

“Just texting Lestrade,” Sherlock answered.

“Don’t.”

That response threw Sherlock off so much, he almost dropped his phone. He looked up to stare at John, who had put down his cup. Sherlock searched for an answer, some meaning in his friends face. But all he could find was a tired, almost sympathetic smile. Damn, why was John always so hard to read?

“Why?”

“Because you’re just going to ask him for a case, and frankly, I’m too tired to move anywhere today.”

Sherlock slowly shook his head.

“Don’t deny it. We’ve been out every night for weeks. Chasing people, solving puzzles… I have to admit that it was a pretty good time. But I can’t be like that every day.”

Sherlock was still incapable of answering. He didn’t expect that. At all.

“What’s the matter?”

“I… But… we have to…,” Sherlock mumbled, trying to find the right words.

“Have to what? Be out there? No, not today.”

“John, we really have to.”

“Sherlock, what’s gotten into you? I mean, I know you’re bored between cases, but you have to allow yourself some rest, every now and then. I mean, you didn’t even make it to your bed last night. And I bet you haven’t eaten in forever…”

“It’s not that....,” Sherlock felt his face fall. “Yes, of course I’m bored between cases. But…”

“But?”

Sherlock took a deep breath. He knew he had to reveal his little plan at some point - he just wasn’t expecting it to be so soon. He struggled to find the right words.

“I… I have…,” he started, but then stopped again.

“Sherlock? What...”, there was concern in Johns voice now. Concern about Sherlocks strange tone and uncharacteristic behaviour.

“No, please...,” Sherlock said, cutting off John mid-sentence. It came out harsher than he wanted, desperate even. He immediately looked up to see if he had offended John in any way, but his gaze was met by a warm smile that untied the knot in his throat.

“I want you to be happy, John,” Sherlock started. He could see that John wanted to say something, but was grateful to see that the doctor refrained from talking. “I always just wanted you to be happy. First, it was a selfish desire. I wanted you to be happy, so I could keep you with me. Then it was concern about your happiness. I removed myself from your life twice to keep you safe and happy.”

John swallowed, the words he wanted to say forgotten. He was just sitting there and listened. He exchanged a long look with Sherlock, until the other man took another deep breath and continued talking in a low voice.

“But now I see that it has always been about me. I lied to myself, saying I was keeping you happy, when I was acting out of selfish desire. I realised that when you came back to me. So… broken. Unhappy. I was crushed. I realised that it couldn’t go on like that…,” Sherlocks voice was about to break, but he continued. If he was laying his feelings bare, he might as well go through with it all the way. “At your… wedding… I said, that I will never make another vow. But during the night you returned to Baker Street, I made one to myself.”

John couldn’t move, he couldn’t take it all in. It was all happening to fast. Was that really happening? Over tea at the kitchen table? He would laugh at the absurdity, but his body was entirely frozen in place, hanging only on Sherlocks words.

“I vowed that I would be the one to make you happy from now on. I tried removing myself from the picture, but it didn’t work. I don’t have much going for me except my work, but that always seemed to make you happy. I can’t give you anything but that, but I will give everything I can. Please, let me be the one to make you happy...,” he finally looked up again. “Can you allow me this one, selfish request?”

The question hung in the air between them. John stared at Sherlock, trying to organise his thoughts. Of course! It all fell into place now. The constant chases, working on cases, running around London together. Sherlocks untypical behaviour, constantly throwing him off. The bad jokes, all the banter with the officers at the crime scene. Oh, John was a fool not to have seen it. Sherlock had been giving him joy in the only way he knew. Trying to keep him happy and occupied, when John would’ve been a miserable mess, because of his current situation, otherwise. And it had worked. John couldn’t admit to be over everything, but he felt a whole lot better compared to his time before he returned to 221b. Happy, even?

“Sherlock… you are a big idiot,” John stated and had to laugh, the tension eased out of his body with the realisation. “A massive, bloody idiot!”

Sherlock just blinked. He couldn’t follow. At all.

“I get it, I get it now,” John continued to grin. “But it’s all good now. Don’t worry. I feel fine.”

“You… do?”

“Yes, you git. Tell you what… We’re going to stay in all day today and have some downtime.”

“I don’t think…”

“Sherlock, I feel fine. Just bloody tired. I really need some time to relax.”

The detective cautiously nodded. He wasn’t quite sure where this was going, but John seemed happy with it, so it was probably alright.

“Brilliant. Here’s what we’re going to do: I am going to get a DVD from my room, which I’ve been wanting to watch with you for ages, and you get us some takeout. I think Chinese would be good. Then we’re going to sit on the couch and have some downtime,” John beamed. “And if Lestrade calls us about a case, we’re going to tell him to fuck off.”

Before Sherlock could say anything, John had emptied his tea cup and jumped up. He went behind Sherlock to place the cup in the sink, brushing a hand over the detectives curls as he placed himself behind him. He grabbed Sherlocks shoulders, the way the other had done a few nights ago in the university gardens. Sherlock shook a little, but made no protest as John pressed a kiss to his cheek and whispered: “Thank you.”

John then proceeded to the stairs. “I’m going to shower now and get that DVD, so you better get moving,” he said to Sherlock, who could do nothing but nod.

\---

“This is… interesting so far,” Sherlock said, sounding like he was lost in thought. “You watch a lot of these?”

John nodded. The TV was showing the Hobbits arriving at Rivendell. The first part of the Lord of the Rings viewing marathon, which he had declared to be the only thing they would be doing today. Sherlock hadn’t been all that eager, but had given in fairly quickly, for his standards.

They were sitting next to each other on the couch, arms and legs touching, but no more. Sherlock was disappointed by the heat of summer, which meant that he couldn’t drape a blanket around them and they didn’t have any reason to cuddle for warmth. He was surprised by himself, to be wanting this intimacy, and disregarded the thought immediately, not wanting to press anything, even by accident.

Which is why he was even more surprised to feel Johns head lean against his shoulder. It took all he had not to jump at the sudden contact, and in turn scare John off again.

They kept sitting like this for the rest of the first movie and Sherlock cursed inside when John had to get up to change the DVDs. But when the doctor returned to the couch, he immediately resumed the same position, leaning into Sherlock, who in turn sighed with relief. He heard a low chuckle and found a hand joining with his, which had been laying on his thigh. Taken by surprise again - Sherlock felt entirely out of his depth today, something which happened rarely, almost never - the detective just let it happen, happy to let John do whatever he wanted.

“John, you should be watching the TV,” Sherlock said, still looking forward, but registering his friend looking at him from the side, in his peripheral vision.

“I’ve seen the movies before,” John answered. “This is more interesting…”

Sherlock turned his head to the left, looking down at John, who was still resting on the detectives shoulder, looking up. They were so, so close. Sherlock swallowed as John licked his lips. Something he always did when looking at Sherlock. Something that now drove Sherlock crazy.

“John…,” he said in a low voice.

The doctor smiled and closed his eyes, leaning in closer. Sherlocks heart fluttered. He looked at Johns lips, still wet from saliva and inched closer, as well. Seconds seemed like eternity. Then… he drew back.

“John,” he said again, sadness and disappointment in his voice.

The other man opened his eyes, confusion written in them. He blinked several times.

“Sherlock? Why? Have I misread…,” John started, but stopped as Sherlock shook his head.

“Sorry, I can’t do it like this,” the detective whispered, still looking at Johns lips, desperate to meet them. “I have to give you something first. Something I’ve been meaning to… No, something I should’ve given you days ago.”

“I don’t understand…,” John looked a little bit frightened, so Sherlock put one of his hand up and stroked along the uninjured cheek for a moment.

“I’ll be right back,” he said and rose from the couch.

In the background, the movie kept on playing as Sherlocks slowly walked to the kitchen and opened the cupboard. He took out the envelope, which he had hidden. When he arrived back at the couch, he carefully sat down and handed John the white paper with a sad smile.

“This had been given to me about a week ago. By… Mary.”

The sound of the name made Johns brow furrow. He eyed the envelope from all angles before opening it.

“Why didn’t you give it to me then?”, John asked, pulling out the divorce paper from the envelope, giving the printed part a glance, his gaze immediately falling to the bottom, where Mary had already signed.

“Because I am a big coward when it comes to you, John. A big, idiotic coward.”

“I… uhm… yeah. I have to read this... alone,” John said and rose from the couch.

Sherlock wanted to grab onto him, hold him back, but felt like it wasn’t his place to do so. He could only watch his friend walk out of the sitting room. 

The last thing he heard of John was the closing sound of his bedroom door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry! Hope I can get to the next chapter soon!


	8. The End

It was hell. There was no other way to describe it.

Sherlock had waited almost all night on the couch for John to come back. As the second movie was finished, he forced himself to watch the third one. Maybe John would join him again. But if anyone had asked him what happened in ‘The Return of the King’ he would draw a blank. His mind was much too occupied playing out different scenarios.

His imagination proceeded to kill him time and time again, as almost every make-belief story ended up with John leaving. Even though he should be able to conclude a different outcome from his friends behaviour during the last days, his mind painted the future in grim colors. Sherlock had always been pessimistic, always expecting the worst.

No, he couldn’t stand it anymore. After staring at the DVD menu for a whole four hours, Sherlock snapped back into reality. It was 5am in the morning. The sun was starting to come up again. No use going to sleep now.

Sherlock cautiously approached Johns bedroom door, carefully placing his feet on the stairs in the least noisy way. He refrained from knocking at, or even opening the door - only placed an ear to the wood. After filtering out all other noises, he could hear John breathing regularly, which meant that the doctor was most definitely asleep. Sherlock was temporarily at a loss as to what his next steps should be.

After forcing himself not to get lost in additional, hypothetical scenarios, he decided, with a heavy heart, that it would be best to wait until John came to him, instead of trying approach the doctor. John had expressed the wish to be alone for a while, after all. Maybe it would be best if Sherlock wasn’t at Baker Street at all for the day, giving John some privacy. A concept Sherlock didn’t place much value in, but he knew that John did.

There was still time until the doctor would wake up, Sherlock was sure. After dressing to go out, the detective donned his Belstaff coat and scarf, even though the summer morning was already quite warm. He felt so very unsure right now, and the coat helped to both keep up appearances and shield him from the public eye, at least a little.

The shopping was done quickly. Some fresh pastries with apricots from the nearest bakery for John, nothing for Sherlock. He wasn’t sure he could even stomach something if he wanted to. He quickly returned to 221b. After some consideration, he placed the pastries on a plate, which in turn was placed on a tray. Sherlock left the tray outside Johns room, being as quiet as possible. There was a note stuck to the plate.

**I’ll be back late. If there is anything wrong, please don’t hesitate to call me. SH**

Taking some more minutes to read his note over and over again, Sherlock finally nodded to himself and left the house.

Now what? Sherlock started to walk along the street, with no goal in mind. It was too early to show up at either NSY or Barts. Maybe he could text Lestrade anyway. But, no. He didn’t want to annoy the DI so early in the morning, as he’d probably be the only possibility for distraction during the day. Or days. He hoped that John would contact him soon, but he couldn’t be sure.

Sherlock sighed and looked around. Surely enough, the CCTV at the intersection had been following him. It wasn’t the only camera directed at him. He had to grin. It just wasn’t possible to escape Mycroft’s surveillance. Before continuing his walk, he nodded curtly to the camera. He had no desire to contact Mycroft right now, but as lost as he felt, it was oddly comforting to have someone watch over him, even in this twisted way.

A little over an hour later, he arrived at NSY. The journey by foot wouldn’t usually take him this long, but he was walking slowly, lost in thought. It was now almost 7am. That was late enough, right? Socially acceptable to be texting a working man at 7am? Sherlock deemed it so, mostly because he was craving a distraction.

**Got any cases? SH**

The answer came almost instantly.

**Have you been up all night? Christ. I’ve just gotten out of bed. GL**

**Yes. SH**

**You’re mad. I might have something, though. I’ll text you later. GL**

**Now would be more acceptable. SH**

**Why? GL**

**Because I’m outside NSY and dreadfully bored. I might do something I regret. SH**

**I’ve called the guys on duty. They will let you in. Get a coffee. I’ll be there in half an hour. GL**

**And Sherlock? GL**

**Yes? SH**

**Please don’t do ANYTHING until I’m there. Please! GL**

**… Fine. SH**

Sherlock got up from the bench he had been sitting on to text Lestrade and made his way towards the NSY building. A short check at the door later, he was sitting in the DI’s office. Almost all other desks were already occupied. Sherlock shook his head. Did Lestrade usually start working this late? Maybe he could afford it, being the chief around here, and all.

Lestrade found Sherlock rummaging through his desk, as he entered his office, which was separated from the other desks by a glass wall.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” he sighed. “What did I do to deserve this? Leave my stuff alone!”

“Just passing the time,” Sherlock shrugged and shut the drawer, but not before taking a last look at and registering the names on the files lying in it.

“Well, good morning to you, too,” the DI put his bag onto the floor next to his desk. “Can I sit in my chair?”

“...fine.”

Sherlock got up, but didn’t go far, leaning against the desk next to Lestrade’s chair.

“You’re being really annoying, even for… a Sherlock.”

“Am I to take that as a compliment?”

“If you like.”

“Then I won’t.”

“Fine, suit yourself,” Lestrade knew it was no use getting angry over Sherlocks behaviour, but he just couldn’t help himself. He took a few breaths to calm down. “You’ve been so nice during the last weeks. Balanced even. God knows I’d never think I’d say this. I actually started to like you.”

Sherlock scrunched his face and gave Lestrade a mocking look. “You? Like me? To what do I owe the honor?”, his voice dripped of sarcasm.

Lestrade grinned. “Not to what. To whom. And the person is John Watson, I suppose. Did something happen with him?”

Sherlocks face immediately fell. Nothing was left of the mocking expression.

“Woah there, right on the mark?”

“How do you know?”

“Are you really asking me that? Can’t you figure it out yourself?”

“I…,” Sherlock looked away. “I find myself at a loss deducing things about John.”

“Oh, so you do?”, Lestrade said, which sounded more somber than he wanted it too. Sherlock recognised that tone, as well.

“Yes…,” he answered tersely.

“Well,” the DI cleared his throat. “You arrived here very early in the morning, which made me ask if you didn’t sleep at all, which you confirmed, by the way. Since John returned to Baker Street, you were always well rested when I saw you on a case, which happened very frequent during the last weeks. I have to assume that John is either out or not looking after you, for you to be able to stay up this long. You’re so irritated, you can’t even concentrate on properly annoy me, even though it’s half past 7 in the morning, but I give you credit for trying. You’re looking for a case, something to work on. Distract you, maybe? So something must’ve happened. And it must be about John, or otherwise he would be here with you. Did I get that all right?”

Sherlock just grinned. “I’ve been on the receiving end of deductions quite a few times in my life, but usually them stem from my brother.”

“Did I get that all right?”, Lestrade asked again.

“Yes. Yes, you did,” Sherlock nodded. “I suppose you want me to you what happened?”

“No, I don’t need to know. Come on, we’ve got a murder case, which came in last night. Probably an easy one, but if I can cheer you up by taking you along, so be it.”

“Greg…”

“Come on, don’t get all sentimental on me. Move your arse.”

\---

The day had, luckily, been full of distractions. Sherlock didn’t expect Lestrade to keep him this occupied, but he was actually letting him tag along all day. Not that Sherlock would usually do such a thing - daily life, ugh, boring - but anything that could take his mind off John sitting alone in the flat at Baker Street, was welcome. He made a mental note to go easy on Lestrade for the next months… okay, weeks. Friends can be found in the least likely places, he thought.

It was late when returned to Baker Street. Very late. He didn’t dare come in earlier, at the risk of running into John, no matter how much he wanted that to happen. But when Sherlock arrived, the flat was dark. Turning on the light in the sitting room revealed that nothing had changed in his absence. Even the DVDs were still lying on the table, where he had left them.

Sherlock sighed deeply and turned towards the kitchen. Another flicker of light exposed one solitary change in the environment. The tray, which Sherlock had left in front of Johns door, was standing on the table. The pastries were gone. So was the note.

It took all he had not to run, but carefully walk up the stairs. The bedroom door was still closed. There was no light shining out from under it. But John was in. He was lightly snoring. Asleep again. Well, he would not meet him today, after all.

Sherlock suddenly felt very tired himself. John had left the room, but returned. There was nothing for him to do, but wait. With this thought in mind, the detective retreated to his own bedroom and called it a night.

\---

He woke up late. Sherlock never woke up this late. He must’ve been more exhausted than he had estimated. The angle of the sun would suggest 10… no, 10:20am. A glance at his wristwatch confirmed the suspicion. Before moving, Sherlock strained to hear any noise from outside his bedroom door. But he could only make out the cars moving in front of the window and a couple of teenagers arguing loudly.

Just as suspected, there was no one in the living area of the flat. Was John really still in his room? Sherlock was getting concerned. He couldn’t bear it any longer. He was up at Johns room in record time.

A cautious knock.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“Is everything alright?”

“...yeah.”

“Can I…”

“No, just leave me.”

“Oh… alright.”

Even though he had just been turned away, Sherlock was immensely satisfied by being able to hear Johns voice again after a day of silence. But the relief quickly turned into nervous energy. Sherlock felt so useless, so utterly useless. He hadn’t felt this way in a long time.

There was nothing he could do. He didn’t even want to go out today. With a heavy heart, he slumped down the stairs and let himself fall onto the couch as he reached the sitting room. No use in sleeping now, either. He had enough rest to last him a week. What did people usually do when they’re home alone to distract them? No, he couldn’t do any experiments right now. Probably wouldn’t be able to concentrate enough to get it exactly right. Violin play was also out of the question, as it could potentially disturb John. So, what…

His gaze fell onto the television. Yeah, that was it. Senseless, mindless, common people telly. Just sit there and let the shows make you stupid. Sherlock had never felt the desire to watch TV like that, but it felt absurdly right for him right now. Lowering the TV volume, he chose a reality show and just started watching, hoping to counter his boredom, nervousness and overall rather sad feelings.

\---

Sherlock didn’t even know how long he’d been watching. The sun had gone down, but he hadn’t moved in all those hours. Just sat there and let one stupid program after the other wash over him. God, it was pathetic. If anyone could see him like that, they would probably laugh. But he didn’t care. It was just some distraction, which made him stop thinking, because trying to think about these shows made him physically hurt. Which was just as well, if it happened.

A noise from upstairs brought his focus back. From one moment to next, he could hear nothing but slow footsteps of naked feet on the wood of the stairs. Sherlock didn’t dare move and kept his eyes glued to the telly. He didn’t look up as John entered the room, fearing to scare him off by looking. Silly thought. Was John a deer? But it didn’t matter, Sherlock still didn’t dare.

From the movement in his peripheral vision, Sherlock concluded that John approached the kitchen table and put something onto it. The doctor lingered for a few moments, then turned around. Just shortly afterwards, he placed himself next to Sherlock on the couch, walking all the way past him, through the detectives line of sight. He was wearing a white shirt and pyjama pants, as if had just gotten out of bed, which was probably the case.

Sherlock was all but frozen when John sat down, the head immediately on his shoulder, just as they had been placed two days ago during the movie. Confusion rose. Why was John here? So suddenly? He didn’t say anything? Why is he sitting here? Why now? Like this?

His heart was racing and his palms felt sweaty. In a moment of daring, he raised his right arm to place it around Johns shoulder, drawing the doctor closer in the same motion. Cautiously analysing Johns movement, he only allowed himself to relax when he felt his friend ease into his touch and fall completely against him.

It was a glorious feeling. It made Sherlock more happy than he could ever describe. After two days of painting horror scenarios in his head, John was here, right next to him. So close, he could practically hear his heart beat. Out of his own choice.

They stayed like this for a while. Only when Sherlock heard John hum very low, he realised that he had started to caress the doctors shoulder in a slow and gentle motion. It was entirely involuntary, but even as he noticed, he didn’t want to stop. Exploring further, he brought his hand up to the top of Johns shoulder, continuing to act out gentle motions. As he started to include Johns neck into the movement. As he was touching John’s skin for the first time, he felt the other man shiver a little. Still, Sherlock didn’t stop.

Neither of them paid attention to the terrible talk show, which was currently running, both too absorbed in the touch. Sherlock’s hand dipped under the collar of Johns shirt, starting to caress the skin further down. A tentative move, but he felt no resistance, so he allowed himself to continue.

A little eternity passed. John sank deeper and deeper into Sherlock’s body, giving little hums of approval from time to time, but not saying a word. This behaviour made Sherlock get bolder, moving his hand further down with every motion. Only when he barely brushed past Johns nipple, the doctor suddenly jerked a little and let out a moan.

This was… unexpected, to say in the least. But not bad unexpected. No protest from John either. Sherlock tried it again. This time, John was prepared, so the moan didn’t escape him so loudly, but it was still there. It was a fascinating, warm and amazing sound in Sherlocks ears. He had to hear it again and again.

Soon, he was caressing Johns chest entirely, the doctor pressed to him, apparently enjoying every movement. Then Sherlock withdrew his hand, which threw John off a little, frozen for a moment in… disappointment? But he didn’t have to wait long, because Sherlock’s hand was back, this time from the bottom of the shirt up, placed right on the front of his chest. A second hand joined it’s sibling from the other side. And just like that, John felt himself enveloped by Sherlock, hands stroking everywhere over his torso, exploring every nook and cranny.

It felt so amazing. The skin softer as Sherlock had ever imagined, muscles not in top form anymore, but still present. He couldn’t get enough, tracing his finger along every line in Johns body again and again, until he was certain he could recall it from memory.

During the whole procedure, Sherlock had kept his eyes closed. But when he drew John even closer, pressing the doctor’s back to his chest, he opened his eyes to look down… and immediately see the bulge in the other man’s trousers. Sherlock couldn’t believe his eyes. Was that possible? Concentrating on himself for a second, he realised that he was getting hard, himself. So, yes. A possibility.

Tentatively stroking across Johns nipples again confirmed what he had saw. The movement elicited a twitch down there, so there was clearly a connection between Sherlocks action and Johns arousal. That was all confirmation Sherlock needed. He started stroking John harder, all over the other man’s torso, covering everything he could find, while pressing his own body closer. But not so close that John would realise the state Sherlock was in. The detective didn’t want to distract him.

John started to moan constantly, breathing heavily. He leaned backwards without encouraging, naked toes digging into the carpet below. Sherlock couldn’t take it anymore. He leaned forward and placed his mouth next to Johns ear.

“Touch yourself.”

John froze, the noises stopping. Sherlock almost collapsed. No. What had he done? Had he ruined the moment? Had he said something, that would make John leave?

The tension eased from his shoulders when he saw John’s hand slip under his trousers. The following motion suggested that John was taking his advice. The following sound suggested even more.

“Sherlock…,” he breathed heavily.

Hearing his name like that made Sherlock almost tip over the edge. He busied his hands again, stroking everywhere, dipping down ever so often, but never touched anything but John’s chest and stomach. In a swift motion, he buried his face in Johns neck and started kissing him, sucking at the delicate skin. The response was immediate. Johns hand sped up, while the other one rose to grab onto Sherlock’s curls. 

It was too much. Too much to take in. Sherlock’s mind raced while he tried to process all new sensations. He stared at every detail, trying to memorise the shapes and colors. He listened to every one of Johns moans, delighted in the way he could alter their intonation by touching different parts of John’s body. He pressed his mouth to John’s throat, so he could feel the vibration of the sounds rumble through his airways.

But it was not enough, never enough. Too much, but not enough. He took in the smell of John’s arousal, so different from his own, but very, very John. Still not enough. What sense was left? Ah, taste, of course. The forbidden sense, in a way. You could look at a person, hear them talk. Even smell them if you got close enough. But it was never acceptable to taste them. Sherlock gave in to his urge and drew his tongue along John’s neck and jaw, licking at every part he could reach.

“Jesus, Sherlock…,” he heard the other man mumble. “Don’t stop…”

John finally drew down his trousers to release his erection, continuing to stroke it. Sherlock tried to not stare, tried to focus on pleasing John further, but couldn’t help it. He sucked at John’s neck while keeping the motion in focus, almost hypnotized.

“Sherlock… I can’t… I going to…”

“Come,” Sherlock whispered in a low baritone and drew up Johns shirt to expose the skin of his body.

Everything was over in seconds.

John breathed heavily, but made no attempt to move. They both sat still for a while, trying to calm down. Then John reached for some tissues, which were lying on the table, and cleaned himself him up. Sherlock removed his hands from the doctors torso when the other man pulled his trousers back up and straightened the shirt to the right position.

“Sherlock, I…,” John started, but fell silent again. 

He turned around to meet Sherlock’s eyes, but the detectives gaze was turned downwards.

“Sherlock?”, he asked.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry that happened. I didn’t mean to…”

“Sherlock. Shut up right now.”

“But…”

“I said shut. up. You’re not going to apologise for that. That would mean you didn’t want it to happen, which I believe is a lie. Don’t lie to me anymore.”

Sherlock didn’t react.

“Sherlock, look at me,” John put both his hands around the detectives head and raised it, so their eyes would meet. “I’m glad it happened. Don’t be sorry it did. Please.”

“Are… are you sure?”

“Yes, you git. I’m sure. I’m old enough to know the consequences of my choices.”

Sherlock sighed, a moment of release. But he was still not completely convinced, which John seemed to realise.

“Sherlock. Look…,” he said, his voice heavy with emotion. “... I needed some time to think. Just like the wedding, this was one of the biggest decisions I had to take in my life. But in the end, I signed it. It’s lying over there, on the table. I will send it back tomorrow.”

Sherlock blinked, couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Could it be…?

“Yes, you don’t have to ask. I am staying. I’m not going anywhere, anymore.”

And John smiled at him. It was Johns brightest smile, free of worry and burden. It was warm and gentle. Sherlock was amazed. It was his John, he was back. The stable, sure man, he had known and missed. The one he had wanted to bring back, draw out of all the mess. And there he was.

In that moment, all tension fell from him. All the tension he had carried with him for years. Through his absence, through John’s wedding, through the last weeks. He felt himself crumble, unable to stop it, finger suddenly clinging onto John’s clothes, holding on for dear life. And then he felt the first tear fall, and many following.

“John… John… John…”, he mumbled, under tears, clinging closer to the other man, face buried in his shoulder. “John, I missed you so much. I missed you…”

“Shh, it’s alright,” John put his arms around Sherlock, stroking the soft curls while holding the detective as close as he could. He felt Sherlock’s long fingers dig into the cloth of his shirt on his back. “I’ve got you, I’m here.”

“John… John, I…,” Sherlock sobbed so much, so couldn’t form a coherent sentence anymore. He just kept repeating John’s name over and over.

“Yes, I know,” John said, a smile on his lips. “I love you, too, you idiot. Sorry it took me so long to realise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it. Hope you enjoyed it! This was my personal headcanon-fix-it (or whatever you want to call it). Maybe I'll return to write some more in the future, but this is pretty much all I wanted to bring to the digital paper for now.
> 
> I'm loving the kudos, but I'd appreciate some comments or little reviews, so I can maybe write better next time. :)
> 
> And sorry for the badly written smut. It was my first time writing something like this... The whole story is not beta read and entirely my fault.


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